The Faceless Abductor

death was but a catastrophe in the neighbor's housein yours—a sympathetic murmur, and a sighuntil, your favorite poet's treachery knocks you downand you cry out —"why had she romanticized 'it'?"

the harlequin in your courtyardone spring morning, fades, then blackens,the whiff of charred petals stinging your nostrilswhile apathetic clouds hover over your helpless little fairytale kingdoma faceless abductor stands at your doorstep, an unwelcome guestchaperoned by a gush of choking wind — the family photo frame comes crashing down on the hardwoodand you step on those red shards of glass (you never meant to)it is here, you can tell (though it withdraws every time you extend your hand) — its veil hides neither a Frankensteinian gentleman, nor Grendel's mother,only, the unshackling of pain, clouded bythe doomed shriek of an orphanthere is no introduction, only an uncertain farewellbefore you dissipate into a flickering light which calls itself'the presence of an absence' — its flame sometimes burning, at other times igniting,but in the end, self-destructingin your helpless little kingdom,the rains expunge every evidence of injury, just likethey washed away the soil where the oak tree had been uprootedyou feel no pain, only an absence like a diminishing black hole,and you idolize your favorite poet again ​